


pastries & bones

by Setkia



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anorexic Crowley, Fluff, Human AU, Insecure Crowley, Instagram AU that Lightly Touches Instagram Because I Don't Know How that Shit Works, M/M, body postivity, dyslexic crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: Crowley’s verysoulis aflame with life and energy, and it’sbeautiful.All the same, as Aziraphale sits across from the redhead, he knows something isn’t right.The boy is thin.Verythin.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 86





	pastries & bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grave_robber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grave_robber/gifts).



> So it's a Christmas present that I thought would be many chapters, then turned into one chapter, and has now turned into a mini story that'll probably be 3 parts? Maybe? Anyway, we all stan with chubby Aziraphale, but my obsession with David Tennant has made me VERY aware of how fucking skinny the man is, and how about some body positivity in the other direction, yeah? EAT A SANDWICH DAVID.

Anthony J. Crowley does _not_ get nervous. It’s not part of his brand; he doesn’t subscribe to nerves. He and nerves live in completely different dimensions, never mind planets. He is as cool as a cucumber—

_Do people still say that?_

The redhead shakes the thought away and wipes his (totally _not_ sweaty) hands on his jeans.

This is not a big deal. He’s just going to meet up with someone he met on the Internet.

 _Oh shit, this is how every fucking modern horror movie starts_.

Crowley is comfortable enough with himself to admit he does not fit the profile for “Final Girl” status.

He’s not going to die today. Firstly, because death at twenty-two is not in the books for him. That’s not to say he won’t die young, but rather he’ll most likely die at twenty-six, in a car accident, or because his pyromania got the better of him. Secondly, because buckuphamlet uses a rainbow filter on basically all their posts, and makes terrible Shakespeare puns. Not exactly a murdering mastermind.

_Unless that’s what he wants you to think._

Crowley shoves his thumbs into his jean pockets (they’re practically painted onto his body, his whole hand would never fit, but it’s the price he pays for his beauty), and wanders aimlessly around St. James Park.

The fresh air has to cancel out the bad karma of skipping class, right?

He crouches by the pond, and searches in his pocket for any crumbs from a wrapper he may have. There’s a Weight Watchers granola bar. It’s not like he was going to eat it anyway, so he breaks it up and throws some at the ducks.

Someone taps him on the shoulder just then and Crowley teeters forward, but a hand grabs his arm before he can tumble into the pond. Which is good news, because the jacket he’s wearing is new and he’d hate to ruin it so quickly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

The voice belongs to a man, clearly older than Crowley, but not that much older. He’s wearing asuit that Crowley only knows to call “cream”, and he’s got a handkerchief in his breast pocket. It’s tartan.

“Um, excuse me, but are you Crowley?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

Why must his default setting be defensive?

The man flusters adorably. “Oh, um, right. How rude of me. I’m Aziraphale Lacroix?”

“Ah yes, the Shakespeare fanatic.” Crowley stands up straight and nods towards a bench a few feet away. “Why don’t we sit down?”

He can _feel_ Aziraphale’s gaze on him as he walks. He’s not ashamed, it was what he was going for. Though, seeing the man know, he perhaps should have went for something more classy than slutty.

Aziraphale takes a seat next to Crowley, and the redhead gives him a once over.

The man’s eyes are the bluest blue Crowley has ever seen, and his light hair compliments his soft features. He’s got a bit of a gut, but he holds himself with confidence as though it doesn’t matter. Crowley supposes it doesn’t. _Aziraphale._ A heavenly name for a heavenly being.

“I’ll admit, I’m not quite sure what to do now that we’ve met,” says Aziraphale, fiddling with his fingers. “I mean, it is odd. I feel like I know you, but at the same time, as though I don’t?”

“You can only get so much information about a person by scrolling through their Instagram,” Crowley says. His leg is bouncing. It’s not nerves. It’s … excitement. Yeah, excitement. “So, you read. A lot.”

“I do. Actually, I work at a bookshop.”

_Of course he does._

“It’s a really nice place. Very cozy, lots of first editions.” He shifts on the bench so that he is facing Crowley completely. “But, I suppose you could’ve guessed that. From my Instagram, and from my appearance.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Not mine, I’m afraid. Tell me about yourself, why don’t you?”

Crowley isn’t quite sure what to say, to be honest. He doesn’t do much, not really. “I’m a model, of sorts, I guess you could say.” He shrugs. “I’m not terribly interesting. I’m a student,” he adds as an afterthought. He’s not sure if it counts, considering he’s been skipping classes and feels like a loiterer the rare times he does go to the campus.

“Oh? What’s your major?”

“Majors. Music and arts.” It takes skill to master the art of nonchalantly bragging in such a way that it doesn’t _seem_ pompous, or arrogant, and instead appears humble. Crowley has yet to acquire this skill.

“What do you play?”

“Classical piano.”

Aziraphale grins. “Oh, I do love some good classical music. Do you know Schubert?”

“Everyone knows Schubert,” Crowley says. The tension (which is not from nerves, thank you very much) leaves his shoulders just a little. “I do Chopin, and Bach too. All the Bachs. Not the biggest fan of Mozart, or Beethoven, to be completely honest. They’re good, but so are lots of others.”

“Do you specialize in anything?”

“I’m a big fan of requiems.” Crowley sprawls out on the bench, exposes his neck. He likes the prim and proper look of Aziraphale, but he’d like even more to mess it all up. Wrinkle that dress shirt of his, drag his teeth along that pale neck. “I do art too. Mostly sculpture.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement. The atmosphere has gotten much more comfortable now, and so it is easy for the conversation to flow. Aziraphale talks about his favourite books, and his large family (all sporting odd, Biblical names), and Crowley talks about his gardening hobby and Queen albums, and his Bentley. Before they know it, the park is nearly empty and the sun is barely visible.

“Oh! Look at me, I’ve kept you so long! I’m sure you have class tomorrow.”

He does, but he doesn’t really think he’ll go. Maybe he’ll swing by Aziraphale’s bookshop instead.

Crowley’s stomach growls. He reaches into his pocket, but then remembers he gave his bar to the ducks.

“Do you want me to take you out for some food? I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.”

The thing is, Crowley doesn’t eat in front of people. It’s just simply not done. But he loves Aziraphale’s soft smile and his warm voice, and before he knows it, he’s agreeing.

“Got a particular place in mind? I can get us there in my Bentley.”

Aziraphale lights up.

  
The moment Crowley begins to open up, Aziraphale is a goner.

He is not so shallow as to be swayed by good looks, though Crowley certainly has them. No, it is when he speaks about things he is excited about that he shines. His eyebrows tell an entire story. One of his arms is casually slung over the back of the bench, and Aziraphale just _knows_ it’s not a cheap trick to be his arm around him. He gets almost _giddy_ when he talks about music, or a particular sculpture he saw at a museum. He insists he’s got to take Aziraphale to see some, some time.

Crowley’s very _soul_ is aflame with life and energy, and it’s _beautiful_.

All the same, as Aziraphale sits across from the redhead, he knows something isn’t right.

The boy is thin. _Very_ thin.

Aziraphale understands that beauty standards nowadays are very much approving of the slim physique, but Crowley does not have curves. He is angular and pointy, and while he looks breathtakingly beautiful, he looks delicate. Frail, almost.

It’s as though his body is not enough to contain his essence.

He certainly doesn’t _drive_ like he’s frail. Aziraphale can’t help that he grabs the roof of the car in an attempt to stay calm. His heart races as the old fashioned car speeds down the streets. He nearly chokes on his nerves when Crowley turns to him to ask directions, his speed never wavering, his hands even having the audacity to leave the steering wheel for more than a millisecond.

He’s a bit queasy when they exit, but Crowley saunters out like this is just another day for him. There’s an obvious age difference between the two of them, but there’s something about how loudly Crowley plays Queen and lovingly pats the hood of his car that makes Aziraphale feel like he’s ancient. He’s not even thirty yet.

“Oh, did I … shit, did I make you motion sick?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale says, holding his stomach for just a second too long. “Nothing a good meal can fix.”

“Sure you can keep it down?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Crowley watches him carefully as Aziraphale leads him into the restaurant. It’s a bit classier than Crowley is dressed for, but though he turns heads, Aziraphale doubts it’s because the other patrons wish to scold him for his flashy looks.

“What will you have?”

Crowley doesn’t even open the menu. “I’m not hungry. I’ll pay the tab.”

The light haired man tilts his head. “I doubt that.”

Crowley sighs dramatically and opens the menu. He scans it for mere seconds. “How about water?”

“That’s not a meal.”

“Are you my mother?”

Aziraphale frowns. The man’s oddly defensive. It’s not as though they know each other that well, so he can hardly press him to eat. Instead, they continue their conversation. Crowley watches Aziraphale eat and they exchange anecdotes about their experience in shared ground. Crowley talks about how he got started on Instagram, and Aziraphale speaks about his bookshop.

At first, he’s worried he’s boring the poor man, but the redhead leans in when he speaks and though he ignores his glass of water, he asks questions about what Aziraphale speaks of, in a way that can’t just be to humour him.

When it comes time for the dessert, Aziraphale gets angel cake.

“You’re telling me that William Golding was _wrong_?”

They’re in the middle of a conversation about _Lord of the Flies_. The book has a clear stance concerning the true nature of man, and while Crowley fully supports the idea that man is inherently capable of terrible things, Aziraphale takes the opposition.

“Everyone knows that book is a thought experiment, create a microcosm of the world with a bunch of British boys in the aftermath of World War II, and see what they do.”

“But it was written by a man, with an already existing assumption.”

“A _correct_ assumption.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “They were only _children_.”

“Vicious, terrible children.”

“They were pushed to their limits, unsupervised. By your theory, that would say that society is what prevents man from going feral.”

“Oh, no, I’d say it enables it. But in more creative ways.” Crowley leans back in his chair and smirks. It should be aggravating, how cocky he appears, but there’s something charming about how self-assured he is. It is disappointing though, that he views human nature as such an awful thing.

Aziraphale’s cake comes then. The blond takes a bit from the cake, closing his eyes and humming delighted. When he opens his eyes, Crowley is staring at him.

“Would you like a bite?”

“Oh, no, it’s your dessert.”

Crowley’s stomach growls.

“Are you certain? It isn’t a bother.”

“No, I’ve been meaning to slim down in general.”

Aziraphale looks the man up and down. His cheeks are almost hollow with how thin he is. “One bite can’t hurt you, can it?”

Crowley grips the tablecloth a little too tightly. He goes silent, so silent the bookshop worker is certain he’s going to refuse one more time, before simply continuing on his conversation. Instead, he picks up a fork with a shaking hand.

“One bite?”

“Just one bite.”

Crowley dips his fork into Aziraphale’s cake. He stares at it, and then before he can probably over think it, shoves it into his mouth. The fork clanks against his teeth with the harshness with which he uses to take the bite.

“Good?”

“Mhmm.”

Aziraphale smiles. Crowley gives him a small, almost shy, smile in return.

It’s minor, but feels like something larger.

When it comes time for the cheque, Crowley hushes his attempts to pay. “I said I’d cover it, no?”

“Well, yes, you did, but—”

“It’s not a bother, angel.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Angel?”

Crowley freezes. “Um, yeah. Or no, if you don’t like it. I can er, I could call you something else, if you’d rather.”

“No, it’s fine. I like it.” The light haired man pulls at the tablecloth just a little. “I’d also like to do this again sometime. Maybe. If you … if you’d want.”

Crowley grins at him. “I want.”


End file.
